de l'Opera. Here, on the "terrace" of the Cafe de la Paix, with
its white and gold facade and long French windows, and its
innumerable little marble-topped tables and rattan chairs, one may
sit for hours at the trifling expense of a few sous, undisturbed
even by the tip-seeking garcon, and, if one happens to be a
student of human nature, find keen enjoyment in observing the
world-types, representing every race and nationality under the
sun, that pass and re-pass in a steady, never ceasing, exhaustless
stream. The crowd surges to and fro, past the little tables,
occasionally toppling over a chair or two in the crush, moving up
or down the great boulevards, one procession going to the right,
in the direction of the Church of the Madeleine, the other to the
left heading toward the historic Bastille, both really going
nowhere in particular, but ambling gently and good humouredly
along enjoying the sights--and life!

Paris, queen of cities! Light-hearted, joyous, radiant Paris--the
playground of the nations, the Mecca of the pleasure-seekers, the
city beautiful! Paris--the siren, frankly immoral, always
seductive, ever caressing! City of a thousand political
convulsions, city of a million crimes--her streets have run with
human blood, horrors unspeakable have stained her history, civil
strife has scarred her monuments, the German conqueror insolently
has bivouaced within her walls. Yet, like a virgin undefiled, she
shows no sign of storm and stress, she offers her dimpled cheek to
the rising sun, and when fall the shadows of night and a billion
electric bulbs flash in the siren's crown, her resplendent,
matchless beauty dazzles the world!

As the supreme reward of virtue, the good American is promised a